


I Wanna Be (Your Animal Side)

by Snapjack



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Assembling: they're doing it right, Bondage, Double Penetration, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Gangbang, Held Down, M/M, Multi, Orgy, Rope Bondage, Rough Sex, Sex Toys, Toys, Vaginal Sex, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 22:03:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21260357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snapjack/pseuds/Snapjack
Summary: “Okay, so now that we’ve gotten the preliminaries out of the way, hi everyone, and welcome to the Stark Industries Second Annual Bangout of Natasha Romanov. Let’s cover the rules," says Tony.“Really, Stark?” Natasha says. “You’ve got me blindfolded and tied to a piece of your tackiest car. Now is when you wanna have a little chat about rules?”





	I Wanna Be (Your Animal Side)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sidium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidium/gifts).
  * Inspired by [I Wanna See Your Animal Side](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3528584) by [sidium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidium/pseuds/sidium). 

> This story was originally conceived of as a sequel to sidium's absolutely immortal masterpiece, "I Wanna See Your Animal Side", the gold standard in Avengers-getting-it-on-together fics. I'm writing this as a gift for sidium, though I cannot tell if they are still active in the fandom. (Anyone who knows them, please feel free to draw their attention!) In "I Wanna See Your Animal Side", Natasha is... indulged... by Clint, Tony, Steve, Thor and Bruce in a gangbang that involves some bondage, a lot of consent talk and toys, and a bit of rape fantasy. My sequel doesn't involve as much rape fantasy as sidium's, and it adds a dash of Natasha/Bruce romance, but otherwise hews fairly close to the spirit of sidium's work, which ends with a promise from Clint: 
> 
> “Anytime.”
> 
> I'm gonna take Clint up on that.

> **The end of sidium's "I Wanna See Your Animal Side":**  
  
**“Thank you.” She whispers, and she feels something settle into place when he answers;**
> 
> _** “Anytime.”** _  

> 
> * * *

It’s not even two months before Natasha decides to see if he really means it. Clint’s sick, down with the vicious and lasting head cold that has taken down half of SHIELD, as in really literally half because as it turns out, mission-driven and contagious motherfuckers cannot be convinced to stay home for any reason, including an actual SHIELD policy that rewards sick time at double overtime and a half pay. (It doesn’t work.) So Clint’s gotten sick, which only happens about twice a decade but which he _milks_, _every_ _time_. When Natasha walks into his Tower quarters, he’s stuffed into a computer chair in front of the Westminster Dog Show, swaddled in a duvet that does not entirely conceal his nudity. Half of his hair is sticking up, and he has a twisted-up wodge of tissue sticking out of one nostril. When Natasha asks him if he really meant **anytime**, as in, **again**, he looks blankly confused for some time, and then, when the penny drops, briefly delighted before a coughing fit sidelines him for several minutes.

“Wait. Do you mean _right now?”_

“Dorogoy Bog, **_no_**,” says Natasha, recoiling. “You have the plague. After. When you’re better, or, you know, dead,” she says, backing towards the door. “So. You know. Later?”

“You’re a terrible friend!” Clint yells after her as the door closes, and she smiles as she heads toward the elevator.

Over the next three weeks, there are all kinds of signs that the boys are planning something. Because Clint is the only other Avenger who is actually trained in spycraft, his face is a smooth wall—which itself is a tell, because there’s always _something_ Clint’s excited about. Once, he woke her up at 4 AM after a transatlantic flight because a new Nikki Minaj album had dropped.

But the rest of them are pretty much hopeless. Thor’s face breaks into a gigantic grin every time he sees Natasha, calls her “Lady Natasha”, opens doors and mashes elevator buttons for her and all but bodychecks the people ahead of her in the taco line at the SHIELD cafeteria. She gets the sense he’s hoping for rain so he can use his cape to help her cross a puddle.

Bruce can’t make eye contact with her, goes all stammery when he sees her, then falls silent and wrings his hands for the duration of the elevator ride or coffee break.

Steve just turns bright pink.

Tony, of course, has become even more stratospherically cocky. Having witnessed his game as Natalie Rushman, Natasha had thought he was bad _before_ he got a woman in the sack. As it turns out, that was Tony being _shy_. Tony with one orgy in the bag, an increasingly kinky boyfriend, and another orgy on the horizon, is so, _so _much worse. He goes on Jimmy Kimmel to play strip poker against Donald Glover and Chrissy Teigen, and comes home with two different cell numbers written on his neck in Sharpie. He starts an entire division of StarkTech devoted to fucking machines and won’t let anyone in PR give it a more discrete moniker. “_Listen_, it’s the Sex Robot division and anyone who wants to call it something else has to go through my boyfriend. Literally, go through my boyfriend, he’s in the prototype wing being a test hamster, which incidentally, long Stark Industries tradition for Steve? I think he enjoys being my test hamster more than Dad’s.” He attends the Met Gala in a velvet tuxedo with no ass.

“The fuck is going on with that white boy?” Fury asks Natasha and Clint on a conference call. “Is he having some sort of a crisis?”

“Midlife, sir,” Clint volunteers quickly, seeing that Natasha is uncharacteristically embarrassed. “He and Pep are on a break, he’s having a bit of a walkabout, I think James Franco was somehow involved.”

Fury snorts. “When _isn’t_ James Franco involved.” A general chorus of weary agreement rises crackling out of the speakerphone from the eighteen or twenty SHIELD agents who have also had to roust James Franco out of various superheroes’ apartments, bedrooms, cars, and, occasionally, costumes.

“All right then. As long as we’ve reached the lowest common denominator of my fuckin’ day,” says Fury. “Over and out.”

Clint reaches over and hangs up the connection. Looks at Natasha. Smiles. “Don’t worry,” he says, “You don’t have much longer to wait.”

As it turns out, he means that literally. Because that evening, when Natasha returns to her apartment on the fortieth floor of Stark Tower, the light switch doesn’t respond to her touch. JARVIS doesn’t cue the lights, either, the way he would if there were a power outage or a burnt-out bulb or any threat at all. And just like that, she knows. As multiple bodies surround her, one set of hands pins her arms behind her back. Another pair cinches her thighs, and she smiles in the inky blackness as she smells the familiar scent of men. Lots and lots of aroused men. Clint’s voice murmurs in her ear, “Tolja”, and then the blindfold comes down over her eyes.

When the lights come back on a brief elevator ride later, it’s with a industrial-sounding clunk that tells her she’s somewhere in Stark’s personal portion of the Tower. Probably one of the secure garages, judging by the slight tang of motor oil and leather hanging in the air. The light, leaking around her blindfold, is glaring and 100% white. And she is ushered to a padded chair that, judging by the feel and recline of it, was once mounted in a 2007 Lamborghini Gallardo with racing suspension. The sport model.

“Get her undressed,” Tony says, and two set of arms lock her torso in place while another two pull her snug neoprene leggings down. She kicks and struggles a bit, but half-heartedly—she never realized this, but having had one successful orgy under one’s belt tends to make one feel pretty cocky, going into the next one.

Tony grunts as he yanks a layer off her. “You know,” he says conversationally to the others, “I don’t think Miss Romanov is fighting quite as hard as she did before.”

She hears a murmur of agreement—one of them, probably Thor, chuckling darkly. The joke’s on them. Wait until they pull off her panties.

“I think we’re gonna need to up our game,” announces Tony, and Natasha feels him pulling the end of a rope through the snug of her elbow. “Otherwise she’ll think we’re going soft.”

Steve’s groan is 100% fond, and amused. “_Tony_.”

“Hey, if you didn’t like sex-based puns, you picked the wrong billionaire to sleep with,” Tony tells his boyfriend. “Okay, so now that we’ve gotten the preliminaries out of the way, hi everyone, and welcome to the Stark Industries Second Annual Bangout of Natasha Romanov. Let’s cover the rules.”

“Really, Stark?” Natasha says. “You’ve got me blindfolded and tied to a piece of your tackiest car. _Now_ is when you wanna have a little chat about rules?” She’s ravenously impatient, she realizes.

“Yep, now’s the perfect time,” says Tony, totally unconcerned about her sense of urgency, her slowly soaking panties. “Refresher for everyone, we operate on a verbal stoplight system. Green means everything is go, totally copacetic. Yellow means? Anyone?”

“Yellow means slow down,” says Steve, confidently. Tony’s little Boy Scout. Natasha hopes he takes her up the ass tonight.

“Absolutely,” says Tony. “Yellow means that whatever you’re doing, she doesn’t necessarily want it to stop, but the sensation is getting too intense. Slow down, rein in the intensity, give her some time to adjust. And what does red mean in our little color wheel of perversion?”

“Red means stop what you’re doing, but not the whole scene,” says Bruce.

“100%, point to Doctor Banner, I knew he was the smart one. Rest of you, what’s Miss Romanov’s safe word?”

A chorus responds. “SHIELD.”

Out of the corner of his mouth, Tony addresses Natasha. “That **_is_** still your safeword, right?”

“Yes, come _on_ already,” says Natasha, her voice becoming a whine.

“Hey, Red, every time you mouth off about how long we’re taking, I hear ‘please Mister Stark, discuss my consent needs longer’, just so you’re aware,” says Tony. “Hush now, grownups are talking. What happens when Miss Romanov deploys the safeword?”

“The whole scene stops,” says Clint. “All of it. Blindfold comes off, restraints get removed, anyone or anything touching Natasha backs off.” His voice is clear and strong, and Natasha feels a surge of fondness rushing through her. Clint will always protect her. That said, the warm fuzzies don’t entirely cancel out the queasy adrenaline surge caused by his ambiguous phrasing. _Any**thing**_ touching Natasha. She wonders what other things might be in the room with her.

“All right, nuff talking, let’s get this party started,” says Tony. “Bruce, would you like to do the honors? Divest Miss Romanov of the last of her clothes?”

“Sure,” says Bruce, sounding like he’s more embarrassed than he’s ever been in his life. Natasha hears footsteps approaching, then feels Bruce’s warm hands on her bare knees. “I’m just… gonna take your bra and panties off,” he says, almost apologetically. “I don’t know what the other guy wants to do just yet, so… if you could please, just, not kick me?”

Natasha keeps still. There is a problem, though. “How are you going to get my bra off?” she asks, reasonably. “My arms are bound behind the chair.”

“Ah, well,” Bruce says, sounding even more apologetic. “Tony thought of that,” and Natasha goes completely motionless at the sensation of a blade, slipping gently underneath her bra strap. “You’re gonna wanna hold still for this.” A light tug, and she feels the cut strap give, her left breast popping free from the cup and promptly goose-pebbling in the cool air of Tony’s garage. Another slice and the second strap gives way. Bruce’s chest brushes against her knees as he sets the blade down on the garage floor; then his warm hands snake behind her back to undo the clasp of her bra and free her of the whole contraption. His touch is soothing; almost deferential. She wonders how deep down the part of Bruce that _roars_ is buried.

His hands disappear from her skin for a moment; then, the blade is back, this time sliding under the lacy edge of her underwear, the cool indistinguishable from wetness to the touch. A tug, and the stretchy, synthetic lace is cut away with a rough, ripping sound; Bruce tugs the remainder of the fabric out from under Natasha’s rump and steps away. She hears the snick of the switchblade closing, and smirks, and waits. Tony is the first to say something.

“I’m sorry—Red, is that a _temporary tattoo of the team logo_ on your snatch?”

“Tony!” says Steve, sounding scandalized. Then he ruins what little last bit of innocence he had by adding, speculatively, “It’s not _on_ her… snatch, exactly.”

“I know it’s not, but there isn’t a word for that spot,” says Tony. “The little… nuzzle spot between the pussy and the thigh, what is that?”

“Bikini area?” suggests Clint.

“Inguinal groove?” says Bruce.

“I always thought of it as the valley between heaven and earth,” says Thor, effectively shutting everyone else up.

Natasha raises her eyebrows. “Are you guys just going to argue over vocabulary all night, or are we gonna do something here?”

“Right, sorry,” says Tony, moving behind her. “Clint, toss me that rope, wouldja?” He works quickly and efficiently, tying both ankles back, so she is sitting with her legs spread in a wide V, toes touching the floor on either side of the Lambo seat. If she scootched down a little, she could brace her feet flat on the floor, but doing so would make her pussy gape even more obscenely than she suspects it already is.

“Does this feel strange?” murmurs Tony. “All of us clothed, you stripped bare and blindfolded? We’re all staring at your pussy, by the way. Just in case you were thinking that we were being gentlemen, or that maybe it wasn’t _completely_ open. We aren’t. It is.”

Natasha knows he’s telling the truth. The cool air of the garage has pulled her nipples into tight, painfully swollen nubs; between her bare lips, a teardrop-shaped area of wet, evaporative cold lets her know that the team is seeing her very pinkest, most private spot. Tony is still narrating, his voice low and hypnotic and somehow plugged straight into the reptilian base of her brain.

“Steve keeps turning redder and redder, by the way. He wants to be looking somewhere else, like your face or something, but the truth is Steve is 100% a _very_ naughty boy and his hard-on, Nat?” Tony whistles over his teeth. “It is positively _tearing_ at those super-tight pants he’s so fond of.”

“Tony,” Steve groans.

“What, am I lying?” said Tony.

“No,” grits out Steve, sounding like he wants to disappear through the floor. “Just. Jesus, c’mon.”

“Steve’s a little wound up,” Tony tells her. “Now, Bruce—Bruce has a different problem. Bruce can’t decide where to look. He keeps staring at your pussy, and then up at your tits, and then to your mouth, and then he remembers about your pussy again. It’s like his eyes are on vertical hold.”

“God, Tony,” Bruce moans, “Shut _up_.”

“You’re right,” says Tony, “Actions speak louder than words. Let’s get this party started. Clint? You wanna do the honors?”

“You bet,” says Clint in the background, and Natasha hears what sounds like a very large piece of equipment—a filing cabinet, maybe, or a Bowflex—being gamboled into place. Then she hears the low hum of an electric motor being turned on. She guesses that she is about to experience some Stark Tech.

“Let me guess,” she says dryly. “The Sex Robot division.”

“Nice try, Red, but this is just a Hitachi,” says Tony. “Been around since 1968, thus making it the oldest piece of tech in this room.” He sniffs. “Requires an AC power outlet, hence the setup. I’m not wild about having anything this ancient in my garage, but who am I to argue with Good Vibrations’ Vibe of the Century?” He flips it on, and a loud buzzing fills the space. “Let’s tie it to your pussy.”

Natasha tenses and flexes and her back makes a bow—she knows what’s coming, she knows the intensity of this experience. Clint tried a Hitachi on her once and she nearly flung him out of the bed. She guesses the information has been passed on. She starts to kick and struggle, but Tony is handier than his nonchalant attitude would suggest, and the rope rigging holds. She feels strong elastic bands being threaded around her upper thighs, and a spreader bar being jammed between her knees—“Keep struggling, and I’m gonna set it on High,” Tony informs her, and she stills. Between her lips, she feels the blunt nudge of the Hitachi’s pudgy vinyl head. “What do you think, Legolas,” Tony muses out loud. “Clit or pussy hole?” Natasha listens intently. If Clint is cruel, and picks her clit, she will come within seconds, be oversensitized within a minute, and be miserable for the rest of the experience. She wonders if she is due to be tortured.

“I think the hole,” decides Clint, and Natasha tries not to show her crashing relief, though the beads of sweat that have appeared all across her bare breasts are probably conveying that message for her.

Tony adjusts the head of the Hitachi, pressing it lewdly into the flare of Natasha’s inner lips. “Let ‘er rip,” she hears Clint say, and then the pulsing vibration of the wand nearly makes her pass out.

“Ffffuck!”

Tony has jammed it nearly all the way into her opening, and the vibration is tooth-rattlingly powerful, magnified by the seat of the Lambo, which is sending echoes everywhere. Her pussy begins to liquify immediately, sending a rivulet of wet trickling coldly down her inner thigh. Tony, never one to keep his mouth shut when he could embarrass her to death, narrates.

“Woah, will you look at that? Red’s got a little pussy cream going!” He pulls the Hitachi briefly to the side so the others can see. “See that?”

Thor’s voice is at a deeper, more rumbling register than usual. “It is a pretty sight.”

Tony has moved to crouch at Natasha’s shoulder, where he narrates in her ear. “See, your pussy is turning even brighter pink than it was before, and it was _really_ shiny and pink before. You could almost call it red, Red. Oh, and did you know when your clit gets really stiff it almost turns purple? The more you know,” he singsongs in her ear as his hands snake around her to pinch and caress her nipples. His fingers are calloused and a bit scratchy, but his nails are blunt and short and he digs them into the sides of her nipples just the way she likes.

“Your nipples are really rosy too,” he murmurs in her ear, his stubble scratching. “Just such pretty pink nipples. The boys can’t stop looking at them, though of course the real show is that **_river_** of pussy juice you’re making. You haven’t even come yet, have you?” he says, and Natasha can only moan in response.

She feels Tony’s finger swipe through the wetness at the plump crease of her thigh, hears an obnoxious sucking sound as he licks it off himself. “Yum.” He jams the wand back against her at a slightly different angle—now the fat head of the vibe is spreading the lowest part of her vulva and pressing right up against her asshole, sending ticklish electricity up her spine. She squirms hopelessly against it, unable to budge it higher, unable to fill her pussy the way it’s demanding to be filled, nor to satisfy the sharp pangs coming from her clit. It’s a horrifying tease, one which simultaneously numbs physically while it augments psychologically. Natasha has never wanted a cock in her more in her life—wants it more than she wants her next breath—and yet she cannot come, cannot even _think_ of coming. The vibrations melt and numb, like an ice cube of Novocaine slid inside her pussy. Tony undoes the bandana around her eyes and she finds all she can do is stare, dumbstruck, at the men surrounding her. All are staring at her. Clint is the only one still dressed, in a black t-shirt and tactical cargo pants, the cuffs of which he has tucked into tightly laced combat boots. Bruce and Tony and Steve and Thor are all wearing only jeans, their nipples pebbling in the cold air, feet bare against the concrete tile. Thor already has his cock out. He’s stroking it in a thoughtful way, his head tilted as he watches her—his eyes keep drifting down her body to her splayed cunt, and she notices his grip tightens on his cock every time.

“Look at her pupils,” Tony comments. “Wide and docile as a dairy cow. Who knew all it took to tame Miss Romanov was a little bit of buzz?”

“_Fuck_ _you_,” Natasha moans, but it’s unconvincing, trailing off into a moan. She feels like her back teeth are melting.

“Oo-kay,” Tony announces. “I think she’s having a little too much fun. Let’s bring the pain.”

That snaps Natasha into clear focus. Unfortunately, it doesn’t snap the firm ropes binding her to the Lambo chair, and so she’s helpless to stop anything as Clint rolls back the black linen covering a tray in the corner, revealing a wide array of implements. Natasha can’t see everything, but she can see the fat flogger as Clint lifts it from the tray. With its thick suede mop of soft black strips, it’s hard to miss. He walks over to her, the flogger dangling loosely from his fingertips. He doesn’t snap it or push it in her face or anything crude like that. Instead, he leans down next to her ear and pulls an unseen lever at the side of the Lambo seat, and Natasha is tilted backwards as the seat back drops, laying her back out parallel to the floor and putting an even more intense strain on her upper thighs.

“I call this position Lambo limbo,” says Tony, and even the arousal in the room isn’t enough to stop a chorus of groans, including from Natasha.

Thankfully, Clint doesn’t lose focus—he trails the tail of the flogger over her, lightly as a breath, starting at her pussy and dragging up her belly, lightly swishing over her nipples, then trailing up her throat to stroke her lips, cheeks, eyelids. She can smell the ocean and oyster of her pussy, mingled with the thick leather tang of the flogger. Clint adds to the dreamy sensation by leaning over to dig his fingers into the roots of her hair, gently massaging her scalp as he lightly tugs at her sweat-damp tendrils. Then a sharp _thwick_ from the flogger snaps her awake, stinging on the side of her ribcage. Clint swirls the soft suede against her to kill the burn, then smacks her again on the other side, making her jump and arch her back. Tony sucks his breath in over his teeth.

“That’s it,” he mutters, stepping forward and unzipping his jeans as he reaches her side, pulling out his dick and pressing it into the white flesh of Natasha’s left breast as he jerks it roughly, his calloused knuckles grazing her hard nipple with every pass over the darkening head of his cock.

Clint continues his slow trip up and down her body with the flogger head, alternating between swirls and slaps as he works her over, waking her body up the same way older women wielding slender birches used to do, in the saunas of Moscow, in a past life. Her skin reddens and flushes in patchy blooms, following the path of the flogger; the scent of salt fills the air as sweat beads begin to run into each other on her chest and trickle, tickling, down the sides of her ribcage. Clint straddles her hips and she thinks he’s going to pull his cock out like Tony, going to take advantage of her total vulnerability, but it turns out he’s just getting in position to work the flogger harder and more mercilessly, going after her bare feet, which due to the position Tony’s yanked her into, are curled with the soles exposed. Natasha yelps and jumps as Clint swaps sides with the flogger, tickling and swatting in an unpredictable pattern that she can’t anticipate or ready herself for, and as she bucks and struggles against the ropes which bind her, the Hitachi dislodges from her opening and rests, painfully, against the reddened crease of her buttock.

“Yellow,” she finally begs, feeling ashamed. When did she become such a lightweight for pain? Clint, however, doesn’t let her wonder for long—moving swiftly, he detaches the thigh bands which holds the Hitachi and tosses the vibrator to the side, then tugs an unseen rope which loosens the tension on her legs enough to allow her to place her feet flat on the floor. She can’t kick or anything, but it’s more comfortable.

“Better?” Clint asks, trailing the flogger up her sternum to her chin, where he uses the end of the handle to tilt her chin up, forcing her to look him in the eye. She shivers at the promise she sees there.

“Better.”

“Good. Let’s get a cock in you,” announces Tony. “Thor! You’re up, buddy.” Moving swiftly around Natasha, Tony tugs one rope and reroutes another, guiding her knees up and out to a frog position as swiftly as a deckhand raising a spinnaker during the America’s Cup. Which, Natasha guesses, Tony has also done. There aren’t many rich boys’ games Tony doesn’t like to play. “Barton. Come play with her hair, she seems to like that.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” Clint gripes cheerfully, but straddles the leather seat just above Natasha’s head, digging his fingers into the red, sweaty mass of Natasha’s hair. She moans with pleasure as he begins massaging her scalp, rubbing gentle circles into the muscles that tensed during the Hitachi ordeal.

Thor steps up to the base of the chair, standing between her splayed thighs, a considering look on his face. His swollen cock is far too heavy to stand straight up—instead, it aims out and down, wrist-thick and bobbing as heavy as a carthorse’s head. It’s intimidatingly thick, girthier at the middle than at the head. Natasha didn’t see it last time; she’s a little glad, now, that Thor chose to ram it into her from behind, before she could get a look and lose her nerve. She whines a little bit, now, because she can and it won’t make a bit of difference.

“Ohhh, please, sir, don’t cram that in my pussy, it’s too big,” she breathes, embarrassed at how her voice climbs and at the “sir” that came bubbling up from somewhere, deep below, a place she doesn’t go unless she’s safe in ropes and chains.

Thor chuckles, pleased, looking around the room at the rest of his audience. “Do you all hear that?” he says. “She called me _sir_.”

“Adorable,” Tony says, sounding hilariously put out by the idea of anyone in the room being a ‘sir’ other than him. She can’t see his face, but she can picture the pout.

Thor looks back at her, at the bright red blush that’s staining her, cheeks to chest. “It’s not sir,” he says, quietly, and Natasha feels the humidity in the room shift and gather, cooling like the air right before a summer storm. “It’s **_god_**.”

Natasha swallows, thickly, as Thor dips his fingers into an open pot of thick, greasy lubricant, smearing a slight amount of it on his cock and giving it a stroke to spread. It’s still a monster, greased or not, and he jams it in slowly enough that she feels every aching inch, his hands braced athwart her hips, his eyes closed, his face impassive even as his body vibrates with barely restrained electricity. He’s giving her nothing, no quarter, no mercy, and barely enough lube, and she realizes with a jolt that it’s making her **_ludicrously_** wet. It’s clear to Natasha that she’s just a fucktoy to Thor, just an appealingly tight sleeve for his cock, and moreover that that’s exactly what she’s needed. She wonders, as Clint gently tugs at her hair and Thor begins sawing his baseball-bat-sized cock in and out of her, just how perceptive the God of Thunder really is. He doesn’t touch her clit, doesn’t even seem to notice her as a person, and yet the tug of his wide member on her pussy lips both pinches her and releases previously-never-found tidal waves of endorphins, soaking her—and him—in wet spurts. She’s never gushed like this, it’s embarrassing, and yet as Thor’s cock gets wetter it only encourages him to hammer her harder, driving deep into her and bouncing his heavy balls off her ass. She’s moaning continuously now, a long stream of babble where she tells Thor embarrassing things, things she’s never even _thought_ before, things about her pussy and how deep he’s getting into it, how wide his cock is, how much she’s needed a big cock like that, how much it hurts, please no, please yes, please more.

“That’s it,” says Tony. “You can’t expect me not to fuck that pretty mouth now,” and in a dim haze Natasha realizes Stark is standing over her, encouraging Clint to tug her head back, feeding her his cock. She mouths it eagerly, watching Tony’s eyes darken above her as he strokes her chin, her temples, her throat with two fingers. Clint tugs her this way and that, using hanks of her hair like reins, guiding her to suckle Tony’s balls and then his shaft, holding her down for Tony’s pleasure. There’s a motor-oil tang to Tony, a sharp black-rubber scent underlying his clean cologne, and the hand he uses to guide his reddening cockhead over her lips is stained, just a little, with the shop oil he uses every day. “Lookit you,” he murmurs as he watches her mouth his cockhead playfully, curling her tongue around the tip. “You _like_ doing this, don’tcha. You like being my good girl.” 

Natasha can’t help the whimper this language pulls out of her, nor the absolutely embarrassing wetness that’s now sluicing from her pussy with every stroke of Thor’s ridiculously girthy cock. Every thrust now has a _splash_ at the end of it. She feels like a machine, a thing that yields pleasure, like she herself has become the sex toy—all snug passages and pleasing curves of silicone and rubber, her own tits bouncing in her peripheral vision like the merry jouncing of a porn star’s. Steve, too, appears in her periphery, standing behind Tony, stroking the shorter man’s shoulders and ribcage with his big hands, chin resting on Tony’s shoulder as he watches Natasha mouth his boyfriend’s cock. Every once in a while, he turns to mouth a wet, open-mouthed kiss to Tony’s neck, and Natasha notices that both his and Tony’s eyes slide shut when he does.

“Hey, big guy,” she hears Clint say quietly. “Natasha really likes it when people play with her tits.”

Natasha, lost in dreamy fucktoyness, actually wonders for a moment who he’s talking to—then Bruce steps into the empty space in the circle above her, and she realizes with a jolt that _he hasn’t touched her yet_. He must have just been… looking. Watching, while Thor turned her pussy nearly inside out. Watching while that thick pole tugged at her lips, splayed her open. The thought makes her heartbeat ramp up until it’s hammering at her ribs in double time.

Bruce kneels by her side, placing his hands on her waist and slowly sliding them up to gently cup the undersides of her tits. His hands are warm. His eyes are _very_ green. “Natasha,” he says, and his voice is reverent. Then he takes her nipples between his fingers and squeezes—just enough that, around Tony’s cock, she moans. Bruce takes that as encouragement, continues sliding her nipples between forefingers and thumbs, alternating between pressure and friction as he works her over, digging in with his nails just to the point of pain before letting go and soothing the sting away with swipes of his big, calloused thumbs.

Natasha is moaning nonstop now, the guttural vibrations traveling up her throat as she takes Tony’s cock deep enough to change the pitch of her sounds. Thor is pounding her hard enough to loosen fillings now, digging in at the end of every stroke with an extra push that seems designed to make her jump and yelp. His hands, too, are dancing with small crackles of lightning that spiral across her skin, tickling like the trailings of a sparkler on the Fourth of July. At one point, one of the tiny sparks zaps Bruce in the small of the back and he startles—“Youch!”—before turning around to look at what’s stung him. He’s still rubbing the spot as he returns his attention to Natasha, but she catches a glimpse of green, fading as his skin returns to pink, and it’s that tiny danger sign that sends Natasha cresting over the edge of a long and violent orgasm, one that clenches her back in a tight arch and her pussy in rolling squeezes paced as far apart as breaking waves. Thor seems to enjoy the sensation, leaving his cock planted to the root in her pussy as she rides out the orgasm. When she’s subsided, he begins pumping again, but he’s so primed by the hypnotic pulse of her own orgasm that he lasts only a few strokes before spilling over, his come brimming her pussy easily and dripping on the floor in a long spatter.

“God is dead,” announces Clint, giving Natasha’s hair a shrewd tug. “Good job, Nat. Cap! You’re up. Get in there and show the lady a good time.”

“I’ll do my best,” says Steve, but as he rounds the end of the Lambo chair to take his place between Natasha’s thighs, Clint tosses him a small object. “Here. Use this.”

Steve catches the thing, but with his speedy super-soldier reflexes—and Tony’s cock in her face—Natasha can’t see what it is. The tension causes her thighs to tighten, something Steve notices.

“Hey there,” he says, stroking her flank like she’s a nervous racehorse. “Tony. Give her a little space.”

Tony backs off, and Steve looks above Natasha’s head to Clint. “Clint. Can we put her in a little more comfortable position?”

“You bet, boss,” Clint says, and speedily releases Natasha’s hands from the ropes that bind her both to the chair and to her own ankles. Tony helps to return the Lambo seat to an upright position, one hand warm on Natasha’s shoulder to steady her from the black stars that dance across her vision after a long time bound, laying down.

Steve looks around Tony’s workspace for a tool that fits his needs. When he sees it, he snaps his fingers. “Thor, help me wheel that over here.”

Tony’s hands stay, warm and steady on Natasha’s shoulders, and they only press down a little more as Thor and Steve wheel a massive sawhorse into view. The sawhorse has sturdy wooden legs, locking casters on the feet, and a fat vinyl pad wrapped around the top rail. As they wheel it closer, Natasha also sees the four ring bolts, one at the bottom of each leg. “_Fuck_,” she whines, but is still too languid and groggy, following her orgasm, to mount much of a struggle as Clint and Tony hoist her by her elbows and usher her to the sawhorse, bending her over the frame and quickly cinching her wrists and ankles to the ring bolts with rope. The padding is surprisingly comfy and supportive, and the sawhorse is long enough to support her from chin to pelvis, but her breasts hang free on either side of the top rail, and she can tell her pussy is wide open at the other end. Defenseless. As Clint and Tony kneel to lash her forearms and calves with a few more loops of rough hemp rope, it dawns on Natasha that her pussy isn’t the only orifice that the sawhorse makes available. As if summoned by the thought, she feels Steve take his place behind her; his cockhead resting lewdly on the surface of her pussy, he digs his thumbs into the creamy globes of her ass and spreads them wide before letting go, allowing them to clap back together, then digging in for a nice long massage.  
“She’s tense,” he says over her back, to whom she’s not sure. “We should fix that.”

“I have an idea,” says Bruce, and then “Tony, you got any…” Natasha hears whispering, and suspects a lot of miming and pointing. She can’t see much beyond the fifteen-foot radius of finished concrete right underneath her sawhorse. She hears footsteps, and drawers, and what sounds like a protracted search for supplies, and then the metallic _snick…. chunk _of an old-fashioned lighter. She stills.

“Easy there, Red,” she hears Tony say. “Nothing’s happening here you won’t like,” and Natasha closes her eyes, breathes, tries to remember that she is surrounded by men she trusts, men she likes, men who would never do anything to harm her. She smells the faint scent of wax and honeycomb.

“Let’s start her off with some oil,” Tony says. “She’s too ramped-up. Here, warm it up here first.” A darker, more perfumed scent joins the others in the room, adding the undertone of amber to the sweet high candlewax note floating over the sharp tang of men and leather and oil. Many men surround her, and then she feels warm oil dribbling down over her back in profuse amounts, as if Tony has simply upended an entire bowl of it over her back, from the nape of her neck to the crack of her ass. A fleeting concern for her hair flashes across her mind and just as quickly vanishes as five men step up to her body and begin massaging the oil into her skin with warm hands, rolling in broad circles over parts of herself she never thought to have massaged before: the fine, thin muscles that span her ribcage. The tense muscles that anchor her jaw. The architecture of her knees. Occasionally a curious thumb skates down over her asshole, thrilling the sensitive flesh there, but they never stay, instead gliding over every part of her until she is as slick and glistening as an otter, rolling in warm surf.

Soon, they find other bits to massage. Thor slides underneath the sawhorse, reaching up to tug on her nipples in light, alternating strokes, his oiled fingers slipping easily off their tips, leaving them glistening. Clint digs his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck, lifting it and tugging it gently this way and that, relaxing the muscles underneath. Tony places one warm hand on her ass to anchor her and begins swirling the flattened pads of his fingers over her open pussy hole. She feels herself arching towards his hand, pressing into it, but the oil is maddeningly slick, robbing her of friction. She can feel only the warm pressure of Tony’s fingers, but he won’t penetrate her—he just rubs in maddening circles, ignoring her throbbing clit in favor of stoking the glowing embers at her core. She can just picture the kind of penetration she needs: long, throbbing, the kind to really prod at her spot. Where’s Tony hiding that electro-stim vibrator from last time, anyway? Her thoughts wander, only to be brought back suddenly by a new sensation—a high, hot dribble that starts on her right shoulder and dances down her arm before landing on the concrete. Her eyes pop open. There’s a white splatter on the concrete floor below her. Not come; wax. The spot on her shoulder stings for a moment, then transforms into a bloom of warmth.

“Look at that,” says Tony. “I just love seeing her covered in white goo. You truly are an artist.”

Well. That solves who’s holding the candle. As she thinks it, Steve tilts the candle again, giving her an identical dribble down the left shoulder. He follows it up with two squiggling lines down her back, parallel to her spine, hot drips running down her ribcage and making her jolt and wiggle against the sturdy sawhorse.

“Lookit those wings,” Tony says. “Just like a Victoria’s Secret angel.”

Natasha rolls her eyes—Tony’s sexual comparisons are always 100% middle-class—but Steve distracts her, tilting the candle directly over her ass and zigzagging it back and forth as it melts, giving her loops of wax over each globe of her ass and a few tantalizing dribbles down the crack. She’s moaning non-stop now, bucking and writhing against her restraints, desperately trying to bring her pussy into more intense contact with Tony’s fingers. Like the maddening tease he is, Tony picks this moment to pull away, leaving her pussy exposed and desperately empty. “She’s ready. Rogers, quit stalling and fuck this nice lady, please.”

“Yessir,” says Steve, and the long slide of his cock deep into her pussy is jarring and immediate. She tenses at the thrilling new invasion, just long enough to be a tiny bit painful. She feels small, virginal again, pint-sized compared to the men around her. Steve’s big hands spread over her hips, warming her and anchoring her body down for deeper penetration as he begins a thrillingly arrhythmic exploration of her body, pulling out slowly and resting the head of his dick at the entrance of her pussy for several seconds before thrusting it back inside with a jarring grunt. She can’t predict his movements, can’t ready herself for his thrusts, and her swollen tissues are responding to the uncertainty by clamping down viciously on his long, stiff cock. Beneath her, Thor slides to the back of the sawhorse and reaches up to massage her clit, his gigantic fingers covering not only the tiny nubbin, but also the swollen labia surrounding it. Thor, bless him, is a man of action, and he presses his fingers firmly where Tony wouldn’t, rubbing the entire cushion of flesh at Natasha’s cleft in warm, round circles, spreading waves of endorphins through her body. Natasha’s moans start to sound desperate now, and she watches in mounting embarrassment as a thick and jiggling line of drool rolls from her bottom lip and extends down towards the concrete below. She wants to suck it in, wants to regain composure, but Steve rams her with his cock and stars swim in front of her eyes. Her vision’s all sparkly, Thor’s fingers are pushing her relentlessly towards orgasm, and that’s when Tony, the bastard, decides to jam the plug into her ass.

“Fffuuccck,” Natasha hisses, surprise making her moan even less dignified than it would normally be, which is pretty undignified.

“Can’t help ya, Red, not unless you wanna use your colors,” Tony says in his very smuggest voice, his fingers jiggling the plug—or maybe that’s just Steve’s baseball-bat dick, ramming into her pussy like he’s trying to find oil there. She’s feeling very **full**, but Natasha’s not a quitter, and she’s pissed that Tony thinks a plug might press up against her boundaries. _“Screw you,”_ she pants, and is rewarded with a mind-melting twist of the plug, which is apparently spiraled, like a chubby unicorn horn.

“As you like it,” Tony says. “Barton, pour a little more lube on her ass, I wanna put something even bigger in there.”

She hears the pop of the lube’s cap and Clint’s chuckle. “Yeah, like what?”

“Like my cock,” says Tony, and Natasha is just about to open her mouth to dunk on Stark’s height, and the obvious logistical issues this poses, when Bruce steps up to the front end of the sawhorse and fills her mouth with his cock. Simultaneously, his hand comes down across the back of her skull, fingers digging into the hair at the nape of her neck, and the weight and authority of the gesture scrubs every thought from her mind except: **_yes_**. She opens wide, stretching her jaw, concentrating on relaxing her throat and letting him jam that big fucker all the way down, picturing the warmest, open-est cave she can, drawing on breathing exercises and a faint memory of choral practice, the idea of just how sore she’ll be tomorrow stoking the pleasure building in her pussy. Bruce isn’t gentle, isn’t even close—he’s fucking her like she’s all stretch, all plastic, a pink latex girl—but what he is, despite the roughness, is _kind_. Every five strokes or so he pulls all the way out, lets her pant a few deep breaths, then presses right back into her mouth, rewarding her with a thrilling sweep of his fingers through her hair, his thumbs petting her cheekbones and her temples in slow, worshipful circles. At one point he leans inward, pressing his cock deep into her throat, and she thinks he’s just testing her limits but no—his fingers land on her back and rake a wildly satisfying path back up her spine through the drying, itching candlewax. The thrill of the scratch, satisfying in its own way, pushes her even closer to her second orgasm, and she squirms against the fat vinyl pad on the sawhorse, against Steve’s relentless pounding, against Thor’s warm fingers… and against Tony’s cock, which she realizes with a jolt she can _feel, _slowly penetrating her ass where the plug’s been removed. She gags noisily and spits Bruce’s cock out. “How the fuck’re you up there, Stark?” she gasps.

“Little bit of tech,” Stark says, sounding strained, and that’s when she identifies the high whine of repulsors, blasting against the floor.

“Are you using the fucking **_boots?”_** Natasha says, incredulous, as Stark wobbles around above her, his dickhead finally popping free of her ass as he loses control completely and falls to the ground on her left side with a heavy “oomph”. She looks over her shoulder—alas, she has only just enough range of movement to see Stark’s bare ass, scrambling away as Steve pulls loose of Natasha, presumably to help Tony stand up. Clint’s hyena-like cackle punctuates the moment: “Stark! Come back here and let me take a picture!”

“No way!” Tony calls from across the workshop. “Blackmail someone else, Barton.”

“There’s no one else here dumb enough to try to use anti-gravity boots in a gangbang,” Clint points out, and then there’s the fleshy noise of a good-natured slapfight escalating in the background.

“_Ahem_,” says Natasha. “Still tied up here.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” she hears Bruce say, and with a jolt she realizes who has taken Steve’s place at the other end of the sawhorse. His hands alone span almost her entire ass, and she wriggles as she feels the remaining flecks of wax loosen and melt under his grip.

“Please,” she whimpers, flexing her hips as much as her restraints allow. “Please.”

“Please what.” Bruce’s voice is barely above a murmur, but there’s raw hunger threaded all through it.

Natasha doesn’t know how to answer _what_. _Please fuck me,_ that’s part of it, but also _please get me out of my head _and _please take away the responsibility of me _and _please make me not-me,_ all tangled up into a braid of need. She can’t exactly say any of that to Bruce, though, not without exposing a part of herself that bondage and group sex haven’t even touched. “Please,” she settles for, feeling frustrated and stupid.

Bruce doesn’t move, doesn’t even twitch against her. “You can’t say it,” he finally surmises. “Not to me.”

Natasha, squeezing her eyes shut in humiliation, shakes her head ‘no’. She hasn’t felt this thwarted by language, this unsure of herself, since the early days of English class in the Red Room, since she went hungry for two weeks because she couldn’t figure out how to ask for food properly. She feels, totally unbidden, tears springing to her eyes and trickling down the sides of her nose. Great. One more humiliation. The guy she likes is refusing to fuck her_ in the middle of a gangbang_, all the other guys she likes—though admittedly not in the same embarrassing way—have been distracted by a _slapfight in the middle of a gangbang,_ and she’s _tied to a fucking sawhorse in the middle of a fucking garage in the middle of a gangbang_. She’s so distracted by self-pity that it’s a surprise when Bruce speaks.

“Could you… tell the other guy?”

It startles Natasha so much she forgets to breathe for a few seconds. Her skin tingling with adrenaline, her heart pulsing in her ears, she nods yes, hesitantly at first and then vigorously as her brain catches up with her limbic system and screams, _yes, **yes**, we’re doing this, it’s exactly what you wanted_.

Bruce moves up to the front of the sawhorse and crouches in front of her. Looks her in the eye. “You sure?”

She nods again, and then she remembers the color system that Tony—bless him—put in place. “Green. Super green. Let’s go.”

Bruce nods, and then there’s a sort of pressure change in the air and a wave of fluid green washes over his skin as he transforms. Natasha has always loved watching Bruce change, but this time there’s an added kick to the process—she’s never seen him change hard before, never see what **that** looks like, and she’s beyond wet as she watches his cock lengthen and thicken dramatically, growing until it’s half as long again and three times the girth of his regular self and so swollen with heavy blood that it hangs straight down. It looks… intimidating. It looks like one of those “challenge” dildos that every sex shop keeps on top of the display rack for people to giggle at but never buy. It looks _delicious_.

Hulk, this close up, smells like Bruce plus something more, something wild and feral and earthy. Bruce always smells like pine. Hulk smells like a pine tree, uprooted and smashed into splinters. Hulk crouches, peers up at her. “What Nat want?”

Nat smiles at him, dizzy with the knowledge that he’s here, that this is happening. Bruce is her crush, but Hulk is her _friend_, and she knows he’ll give her anything she asks for. She lifts her chin, just slightly. “C’mere,” she says, beckoning him closer. When he’s close enough that she can feel his breath puffing over her back, she whispers in his ear, “I want you to fuck me.”

Hulk twitches—all over—at the words, and his face splits into a wide, delighted grin.

For a moment, they’re nose-to-nose, just grinning at each other like idiots, while all the other idiots in the room fade away to nothing. Then Hulk stands up, goes to the other end of the sawhorse, and places his hands on Natasha’s hips, and suddenly the other four other idiots get very, very interested.

“Hey, hey, what’s going on here,” says Tony. “Guys, are you seeing this?”

“Uh, Nat,” says Steve. “Everything OK over there?”

“Yeah, why’dya ask?” Natasha says, her voice sounding high, even to her.

“Uh, because it looks like you’re about to take a three-liter bottle of cock?” Tony says. “You sure about that?”

“Totally,” says Nat. “It’s gonna be fun.” Hulk’s cockhead is brushing up against her cleft. It’s warm, and where other dudes’ cocks would be twitching and lively, it’s still, patient, throbbing with his pulse. Hulk’s hands are gliding over her hips and ass, the callouses on his hands leaving trails of tingling awareness behind him. His breath has a low rumble of approval in it. She wonders if he’s just going to jam it in.

“Hulk, buddy?” she hears Clint say. “Wanna lube up?”

She hears the sound of a lid being unscrewed and cast aside, and then there’s a squelching noise as Hulk dips his thick fingers into the pot of lube, and a collective intake of breath from all the boys as he greases up his cock, being very thorough about it from the sound of things. When he sets his cockhead back against her hole, she flexes a little, experimentally, just to feel the tip of it press against her opening, and she’s gratified to see all the other guys respond immediately by fanning themselves out a little, an unthinking circle of audience members, each in identical, primal position—feet braced wide, eyes riveted to her pussy, cock in hand. Even Clint, who up until now has operated at a distance, alternately running the fuck and monitoring everyone’s pleasure, has yanked his fly open and pulled his dick out, tugging on it one-handed as, with the other, he yanks his t-shirt off and tosses it on the floor behind him. His nipples are pebbled up in the cool air of Tony’s garage, and his gaze is burning as he skates his free hand down over his chest and stomach. Next to him, Tony stands beside Steve, watching his boyfriend’s cock lengthen as the soldier strokes himself back to full attention. On Natasha’s other side, Thor, his eyes dark with arousal, grips the base of his cock with one hand and strokes it with the other, working as unthinkingly and instinctually as he uses the hammer in battle. His eyes are far away, and he grunts slightly with every stroke, his hips working in silent counterpoint to his hand’s rhythm. Natasha remembers that in Norse mythology, Thor is a fertility god; little wonder that his cock is stiff again, his balls heavy and full again. She wonders if this will end with her face, her body being decorated with come—Thor’s and everyone else’s—and that’s when Hulk begins to enter her, and all thought is pushed right out of her head. The pressure, the stretch, is unbelievable; she never would have been able to take it if she had not just been penetrated by Thor’s girth and then Steve’s length, and even now it’s a challenge, her pussy burning with the size of the invasion, sweat popping off her skin like grease dancing in a hot skillet. Hulk’s cock feels like Tony described it—feels like a three-liter of Coke, like a telephone pole being pushed inside her pussy, and the widening pupils of her teammates tell Nat it looks as big as it feels.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” Tony is chanting to himself, his cock darkening with every stroke of his fist. “Nat this is incredible, how does it feel Nat, does it feel good, tell me how that big cock feels.”

Nat tries to come up with something to say other than a moan of pleasure, tries to think of a word other than _God_ or _Oh_, but is saved by the super-soldier, who, bless him, can hear an opening when it’s given. Steve grabs a chair, drags it over behind Tony, sits down with his cock pointing straight up. “You want to know how it feels?” he says, guiding Tony backwards to straddle his lap, and everyone watches as the billionaire sinks down on his boyfriend’s cock, Steve’s gorgeous pinkened length disappearing by inches into Tony, his arms wrapped around Tony’s waist and his brow wrinkling in torturous pleasure as Tony begins to ride him. The billionaire is writhing like a stripper, rolling and unrolling his hips with a snapping motion that is 100% Magic Mike, and Natasha notes with interest that Clint is gripping himself harder at the sight, pinching his own nipples and tugging his thick cock so hard it reddens with every pass of his hand. 

Hulk, energized by the sexual charge gathering in the room, groans in pleasure and begins his first pull out of Natasha, still going slowly as her pussy adjusts to the massive girth of his member, his grip tightening on her hips as his cock pulls backwards—without the pressure of his hands, Natasha suspects that the grip of her pussy around him would pull her, sawhorse and all, across the floor. As it stands, the thick petroleum jelly greasing Hulk’s cock is barely enough to soothe the passage of his member, and the heat generated by their friction adds burning spice to her already-overstimulated flesh. “Ohhhhhh,” she sobs, the sound ragged and primal even to her own ears, and Hulk shifts his grip, flexes minutely, and plunges right back in again, forcing a tiny squeak out of Natasha as his cock forces an undignified squelching noise out of her pussy. He’s beginning to fuck her in earnest, setting up a rhythm just slow enough to follow, but too fast to prepare for; her mind is going white around the edges as her pussy’s flesh is tugged forwards and backwards, so tight around Hulk’s cock that on every instroke, her outer lips and clit get dragged over every ridge and bump on the green length. She’s glad Thor came in her earlier, even though every atom of the load must have been pressed out of her with the first stroke; she’s glad for lube; she’s glad for every bit of wetness in her; and she’s chanting a low groan of desperation for more wet when Hulk pulls out of her unexpectedly. Her eyes pop open—all around her, the orgy has intensified.

Clint is kneeling in front of Thor, taking the god’s length in his mouth as he desperately strokes his own cock. Thor’s fingers press tightly into the close-cropped hair on the back of Clint’s skull, guiding his own girth down the archer’s throat. On her other side, Steve has pushed Tony forward like an arresting officer—one hand on the back of the skull, the other hand squeezing Stark’s wrists together—as he pumps into Stark, his rhythm increasing as his big balls start to slap, audibly, against his boyfriend’s flesh. The noise must be turning Hulk on, too; he’s reaching for more lube, greasing his cock again, and she moans with pleasure as he sinks his swollen member, cool with fresh petroleum jelly, into her depths. This time, she’s more prepared for the stretch, and her pussy welcomes the massive intrusion with something wondrously like relief. _This_ was the itch she so badly needed scratched: to be turned nearly inside out by a tool so huge that men’s pupils dilated just looking at it, a totem of cock, a fucking _cartoon_ of cock. Hulk is getting into the spirit of things too, grunting as he shoves into Natasha’s pussy, moaning as he drags the thick member out. He leaves the tip of his cock buried, pulling back just far enough on each withdrawal to tug her pussy outward with the fat head’s flare. Hulk’s grasp on her hips is sure despite the sweat; with every stroke, he readjusts his grip to more thoroughly screw her onto his monstrous organ, juddering the end of the sawhorse as he struggles to gain anchorage in her snug passage. Each stroke, he presses his balls more firmly against her cleft—they’re so huge, so swollen, that she can feel them not only compressing her clit, but also pressing against the soft flesh of her thighs, pushing her wider as he ruts his cock deep into her pussy. On the tenth of these mind-melting strokes, Hulk loses patience entirely with the sawhorse and laces his fingers together underneath it to pull the end upwards, hoisting Natasha’s hips high into the air and sending iridescent stars swirling into her vision on the other end of the sawhorse, as her hair swings around her face and the blood rushes to her head.

It’s at this point that Natasha loses her battle to control her mouth, and what flies out of it. She’s been trained for decades to suppress spontaneous exclamation of any type; now, ten years into her partnership with this strange crew of extraordinary men, she has discovered the key to open that rusted lock. “FUCK!!!!” she hollers as the Hulk uses his new leverage to probe the limits of her pussy’s capacity. “FUCK ME, OH HOLY GOD, FUCK ME HARD, GIVE ME THAT FUCKING COCK, DON’T YOU DARE STOP, JAM IT IN MY PUSSY DEEP, PLEASE, GOD, GIVE IT TO ME DEEP.”

Her outcry drags the attention away from even the most heavily distracted of her audience. Clint’s head whips around, Thor’s big tool popping free of his mouth, and both the archer and the god hurry to gather around the head of the sawhorse, their thick cocks nudging into Natasha’s face as she thrashes against the padded beam, trying to stay conscious as the stimulation nears her upper limit. Both Thor and Clint are frantically squeezing their cocks, but it’s Clint who has the wherewithal to grab a big handful of Natasha’s limp, sweaty hair, tugging upwards gently to steady her skull so they can smear her face with cock. Thor’s cockhead is lush and flushed, sucked and shining with Clint’s spit, and he purls his hand over the tip in a leisurely fashion before pressing it into the soft flesh of her cheeks; Clint is closer to the edge, and he smacks her forehead and the bridge of her nose with his unit, roughly using her lips as a wipe for his pre-cum, smearing her until she’s shining, until she feels like every inch of her face has been rubbed, deliberately, by cock. Then, in thick pulses whose intensity betray just how long he’s been waiting, Clint begins to come. The thick fluid feels warm against her forehead, heavy as it slides over her eyelids and glues her eyelashes to her cheeks. Thor, who may be a god but whose suggestibility is 100% male, comes seconds after Clint, hitting her right in the cheek with a torrent of come. The fluid just keeps coming, Thor’s balls visibly pulsing as he guides his cockhead over Natasha’s face, decorating every spot Clint missed with a thick dab of jizz.

“Jesus, Thor, she looks like a gingerbread house,” she hears Tony say, and feels a new hand sliding into her messy hair, a new cock positioning itself at her mouth. “Open wide.”

She obediently drops her jaw and sticks out her tongue, the submission scratching an itch almost as deep as the spot that Hulk’s cock is probing, and a second later Tony’s come, thick and bitter and salty, is splashing off her flattened tongue. Steve steps to her face as soon as Tony moves away, grasping Natasha’s hair and pulling it back into a one-fist ponytail. He tilts her head back, and Natasha’s just curious enough to know what Steve looks like, at a moment like this, to risk an eyeful of ejaculate. She opens her eyes. Steve is looking down at her with an expression she’s never seen before. There is arousal there—of course—but there is something darker, by far. Something that stands on a ledge, and looks down. Natasha wonders if this expression of Steve’s was the last thing a lot of Germans saw. Steve tilts her head back farther, exposing her whole neck and pulling her hair to the point of tears, and right as she’s about to cry uncle, the hot blast of Steve’s load explodes right into her face, coating her in something that feels an awful lot like redemption. Seconds later, she feels the hot sting of a literal gallon of come being hosed into her at high velocity, as the Hulk bellows out an echoing yelp of triumph.

She’s lowered, panting, back onto the sawhorse, as Hulk gently disengages his cock from her tight channel and sets the legs of the sawhorse firmly on the concrete floor.

“Untie Nat,” Hulk says, and the other four men get to work on the loops of rope that cinch her arms and legs to the piece of furniture. When she’s free, they help her to stand, and then to lie down on one of Tony’s big, cushioned sparring mats. It smells a little like sweat, a little like oil, a lot like Tony. The men are gentle, almost solicitous, but it doesn’t register—she’s overwhelmingly preoccupied with Hulk, wondering how he is, what’s going to happen next. What happens after the Hulk comes? She forces her eyes open, blinking hard against the sting of fluids in her eyelashes, and sees… Bruce, coming towards her, his expression naked and wild. 

“Oh, Natasha,” he says, and lays down beside her, wrapping her up in his arms and legs, pulling her into him little-spoon style and pressing a kiss to her hairline without any regard for the fluids drying there. “Natasha, Natasha,” he says, over and over. “Are you ok? Holy shit. Are you all right?” His voice is wrecked.

“Bruce, I’m fine, I’m better than fine,” she says, and it’s only as she’s saying it that she hears the hitch in her own voice, feels the wild emotion rising up, realizes that she loves this man. Both of him. She twists in his arms, turning towards him, and they’re kissing, and Tony almost certainly has something smartass to say about it, but it doesn’t matter, and she doesn’t hear any of it, because this, _this right here_, is exactly what she needed.

**Author's Note:**

> As with all my stories, this one would not exist without the labor of my beta, JenTheSweetie, who is the best beta and friend a writer could possibly hope for, not least because I started writing this goddamn thing over a year ago, and she has been *waiting for everyone to wrap up since then*. That's dedication.


End file.
